


The Smut that Never Was

by Ewebie



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in an elevator...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smut that Never Was

**Author's Note:**

> I got bored... It's all build up, no release... Don't kill me, please?

You wobble on your heels as another pedestrian kindly knocks you onto one of the million grates that are clearly intent on breaking your ankles. You swear violently under your breath as the tip of your heel wedges into the metallic death trap and your momentum twists you sideways. You shift your umbrella into your other hand in order to pry your foot free, and another member of the bipedal commuters snags your only protection from the lashing rain and nearly breaks the damn thing. Adding insult to the injury of a fresh drenching with rain, he has the common courtesy to offer a creative use of the word ‘fuck’ as he flips you off. You know what? Fuck this city.

Finally free of the grate, you straighten your shoulders, shake the water-soaked hair from your face, and stomp the final block to the hotel like a child mid temper-tantrum. Attempting a final act of grace, you stand aside as the bellhop lugs two massive suitcases in from the curb, only to have the door next to him thrown open into your face. Without the umbrella as a personal space bubble, you’d probably have just broken your nose. God fucking damnit. Braving the open space on the sidewalk closer to the road to sidestep the now open door, it occurs to you that you’ve made a terrible mistake as the passing cab sends a wave of mucky street water at you like a damning baptism of city filth.

You stand there in shock for a few seconds, the water dripping from the hem of your trench coat and the tips of your hair. With a heavy sigh and loud cuss, you close your umbrella and let the downpour rinse you for a minute before tugging the hotel door open in a huff (of course it’s closed… Why would anyone hold it open for you now?!). Your heels click across the marble lobby floor as you leave a trail of small puddles in your wake. With the bank of elevators in view, you actually breathe a sigh of relief, one opening before you even get there. It was foolish to be hopeful; the doors start to slide shut when you’re moving a touch to quickly at a dangerous five feet away. No. No, no, no, no. “Please, hold the elevator?”

You see the hand catch the door as your speed caries you into the rapidly clearing space. You barely keep your feet as you skid through the re-opened doors and catch your heel in the lip between the inner and outer doors. Apparently, the city grates are just training for running into elevators. Something erupts from your mouth that is a cross between a swear and a squeak and your foot slips free of your shoe in favor of you crashing into the far wall of the elevator. The shoe, as if to make you look like more of an idiot than you already felt, tumbles free of doors and lands uselessly on its side in the middle of the elevator car with a plop.

Your lips tighten in a thin line of suppressed rage as you glared at the offending shoe. Fuck that shoe. You reach forward and punch the button for your floor. “Yeah, fuck you shoe,” you mutter, snatching it up and shaking the water from it as the doors to the elevator close with a polite chime. “Fuck you shoe. And fuck you umbrella,” you shake more water from the umbrella and snap the closure around it. “Fucking good lot you did in this goddamned, miserable, shit-ass, wank-fest weather.” You had to use the flat of your hand to scoop your bangs from your face and flip them back onto the mess that had once been actually done-up hair. “And fuck you other asshole pedestrians, and shitty city grates, and bullshit doors, and mother-fucking cunting taxis, and twat-waffle…” Your voice continues to climb in volume and pitch throughout your rant.

You freeze mid sentence, your mouth open as you realize you’re speaking aloud and there’s another person in the elevator with you. Your face scrunches into a wince and you sigh, an apology tumbling from your mouth. “I’m so sorry.” You turn toward your fellow passenger, “I’m not normally…”

Holy… Holy… oh… why? I mean, you’re going to run into someone you recognize in the city, but it’s supposed to be like a kindergarten classmate or an embarrassing ex-boyfriend, that one neighbor that you knew moved here a decade ago and you’d promised to visit and never had the chance so you didn’t call them about this one stupid business trip. You’re not supposed to… And he’s standing there, arms crossed, casually leaning against the wall of the car, in a perfectly tailored suit and ginger curls… Oh God, your mouth was hanging open again. Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t! No. Fuck, shit, bugger! You feel the blush spread from your cheeks out to the tips of your ears.

The man raises an eyebrow. “Twat-waffle?”

The red flares across your nose and chest so fast that there’s probably steam coming off of your face. “I am so, so, SO sorry.” Embarrassed doesn’t begin to cover the sensation of wishing the floor would swallow you whole right now.

“I wouldn’t recommend wishing for that,” he purrs in the baritone voice you’ve heard so many times.

A sense of panic clenches in your chest and for a moment you’ve completely forgotten to breathe. Fuck, he can’t read minds… Can he? He’s watching you again, the corner of his mouth twitching in the beginning of a smile. You were talking out loud again. You make a show of biting your knuckle while clenching your fist. “What?” you mutter around your index finger.

“This floor to swallow you whole,” his eyebrow cocked again. “It sounds like you’ve had a shocking enough day without that happening.”

“Clearly, it’s been terrible. So much so, that my brain has gone on holiday, and now I’m hallucinating that I’m talking to Benedict in an elevator.” You manage to stop talking again by sticking half of your fist into your mouth and making a desperate groaning sigh. Fuck. Why won’t your mouth listen to your brain when it’s sitting there screaming for you to just shut up!

He had the decency to just chuckle at you. “So, which ones were the… The twat-waffles?” The slight lisp at the end of the sentence nearly had you in hysterics.

This is not normal. This is not what happens to you. You are like a little dark cloud of doom. How could something nice, on a day like today… “I uh…” You start, trying to think of a nice way, a polite way to describe someone you’d called a twat-waffle. The lights flicker and somewhere overhead, the mechanics of the elevator let out a metallic groan of protest as the momentum of the car shifts awkwardly. You brace yourself, tensing and bending your knees to keep stable.

Then the elevator resumes, the electronics normalizing. You glance at Benedict and he smiles sheepishly, releasing the side rails. You try to grin away your nerves, letting out an awkward giggle. He chuckles back. “I thought I’d tempted fate there,” he joked. “So I suppose it could be worse.”

Oh no. Don’t say it. Please, you think. I can’t take it if…

“That almost felt as though the elevator was…”

The elevator grinds to a sudden stop and you press yourself against the rear railing, holding on as the lights go out. The car lurches to the side and you lose your grip as you’re thrown first forward against the doors then into the front corner. The left sleeve of your trench coat snags on something sharp and your arm twists awkwardly as your balance fails in the steep plunge of at least a dozen floors. You can’t tell if your screaming out loud or only in your head, but the darkness is nearly as bad as the disorienting loss of gravity.

An alarm sounds, ringing like an ancient rotary phone and the screeching protest of the emergency brakes barely precede the rapid deceleration. Your rear meets the floor hard. Your head is swimming. Maybe you hit it against something in the chaos. Maybe you’ve felt like this since you were born and you were too stupid to notice until now. The pitch black and now silence of the elevator is so unnerving and confusing that when you feel the soft pressure of a hand on your shoulder you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Sorry,” he whispers from over your left shoulder, his hand giving a gentle squeeze. “Sorry. I didn’t mean… Are you alright?”

You let out a short, strangled laugh. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just… Grand.” Your eyes are struggling to adjust to the darkness, but you hear him snort. “There should be emergency lights or something.”

A blue glow filled the blind spaces of the car. “Damn,” he murmured. You twisted to look at him, and he gave an embarrassed shrug from his spot on the floor next to you. “No signal.”

You take advantage of the light and punch the alarm button on elevator wall. Nothing happens. You hit it again and a third time, a fourth… Nothing. “Really?” You glare at the thing. “Seriously? This is what you’re going to do?” Calm down, you’re talking to inanimate objects. You find the emergency panel and pry it open, yanking the red phone out of the receiver. “Hello?!” Dead air. There isn’t ringing; there isn’t a dial tone; there’s no connection sound; nothing. You turn to look at Benedict, holding the receiver out like it’s offensive in some way. “These are supposed to connect to something, right?”

 “I would assume,” he nods. “Maybe the wire is loose?”

You trace cable back to the panel; gently tugging the slack as the wire end, frayed and split emerges from the wall. You stare at it. It takes a moment for your brain to really register the broken phone, and the moment you catch up with it, you fling the receiver angrily against the far wall with a huff. You draw your knees up, shedding your shoes, and bury your face in your palms. You wouldn’t dare tempt fate by thinking it couldn’t get any worse, but at this point…

Emergency lights flickered to life, casting a dim yellow hue around the car. They give you only the tiniest amount of comfort and you hear the shuffle of his phone being tucked away. You shiver, the wet from the rain having soaked through your coat and into your clothes. Ben’s large hand comes to rest on your shoulder again. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look like you’re a bit damp.”

You force a smile that winds up looking more like a grimace, and he’s completely unconvinced. “I don’t know if you noticed, but it was raining outside.”

His nose wrinkles as his brows draw together. “And you’re shivering,” he says softly. “Here, get rid of your coat, it’s soaked through; take my jacket.” Before you can refuse, he’s pulled his suit coat off. You tamp down on the urge to blush as the buttons on his shirt pull tight across his chest. He raises a brow holds out his empty hand, clearly waiting for something. “Your coat,” he unfurls his fingers in a slow, mesmerizing motion.

“Oh,” you undo the sash of your trench and pop the buttons, flinching as you try to get your left arm out of the sleeve. He shifts, his long arms reaching behind you, taking the collar and easing it down your shoulders. You hiss slightly as the sleeve pulls at something and a quick dart of pain lances up your forearm.

“Hey, stop,” he catches your elbow, keeping you from pulling away again; something you hadn’t realized you were doing in the first place. His hands are gentle, as he peels back the torn fabric of your sleeve. “How did you manage to do this?”

You only glance, seeing the blood, and look away quickly. “I dunno; it was dark.”

“So, this is from the dark?” Both of his eyebrows shoot up as he meets your eyes. The hint of a smile crosses his lips and you try not to giggle. He breaks first; a burst of laughter erupts from him. You try not to join in, but his laugh is contagious and you find yourself snickering right along side him.

“Come on,” you whine between giggles. “I’m bleeding here.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, an errant chuckle following his speech. He frees his necktie and pulls it from his collar.

You realize what he’s about to do just before the tie touches your arm. “No, you’ll ruin the silk,” you blurt out.

The corner of his mouth pulls back in a smirk, his eyes flicking up to regard you from beneath his brow. There’s no hesitation in his movement as he wraps the tie around your arm, winding it carefully, and finishing with a small knot. “I’m no doctor, but I’d bet that will need stitches,” he holds up his jacket, waiting for you to pass your arms through the sleeves. “I’ll not have you leave that bleeding for the next few minutes to spare myself a silly necktie.”

You heave a sigh as though you’ve made a massive sacrifice and let him help you into the jacket. “Not too sore?”

“No,” you shake your head. It actually doesn’t hurt; it probably should.

His arms reach around the front to draw the lapels together across your chest. You suck in a sharp breath as the warmth of him wraps around you. It’s both so comfortable, comforting and yet highly indecent.

His hands retreat to your shoulders and he tries to rub some heat through the fabric. “Alright?” he asks softly.

You nod and lift your hand to scratch the sudden itch on your nose, the extra four inches of his long jacket sleeve nearly smacking you in the face and you startle, staring at the sleeve with a frown. He bursts out laughing again, and you feel the smile pulling at your lips. You won’t have people continually laughing at you, and some mischievous impulse grabs you and you spin towards him and ruffle his hair with your jacket-encased hands. The aim was to just muss his curls, but it leaves him with a thoroughly debauched look that makes you feel a bit guilty and sparks some shameful thoughts.

He chuckles and runs a hand through his hair, putting some order to the mess you made as you sink back down on your knees with an amused smile. You jump again at the buzzing sound from his jacket. “Oh,” he sits forward and grabs the lapel, reaching into the inside pocket and tugging you close in the process. He grins at the phone and answers it quickly, “Declan!”

You watch his face as the man on the other end starts rambling in loud staccato. He bites his lower lip, the corners of his mouth pulling down as if he’s trying desperately to avoid a frown. “Declan,” he tries to interrupt. “Yes, I know I’m late, if you’d just…” You’re having trouble imaging what the other person could possibly be saying that is so important. “Dec! For the love of all that is holy would you stop talking for one moment, please?”

He glances up at you with a look of exasperation as the line finally falls silent. “Dec, are you in the room? Good. I need you to ring the front desk and tell them that we are stuck in the elevator.” You could hear the sudden chatter from the phone, and Benedict actually laughs. “I can’t call them if I’m on the phone with you, and if you’ll forgive me, the reception in here is a bit inconsistent. Please, Dec. Just make the call, alright?... Alright, thank you. Yes… I’ll be there as soon as I can… Call, now. Ta.”

You raise your brow, “friend of yours?”

He chuckles. “Publicist.”

“Well if he can get us out of this mess…”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I such terrible company?” He tucks the phone back into the inner pocket of his jacket, the jacket you’re wearing, and makes a sad face.

You know he’s winding you up. You know it. But it’s so damn cute. “Horrid,” you mumble, goading him back.

The smile that starts to spread across his face makes you blush, and he opens his mouth with quite possibly a smart-ass response, but the lights flicker again and the car lurches and you’re falling again. He lets out an ‘oof’ as his back meets the wall and you fall forward against his chest. His arms close around your shoulders as the emergency brakes kick in once more and the car stops fast enough to jar your spine. You hold your breath, listening to the clicks and rattles of the elevator shaft, hoping that’s the end of it.

Neither of you move for a moment, waiting to see that you’re not going to fall to your death at any second. When it doesn’t happen, you crane your neck to look up at him. You feel Benedict release a pent up breath of his own, his long fingers slowly releasing their grip on your shoulders. “Ok, I see what you mean,” he chuckles. “Horrid.”

You both laugh. You both laugh so hard it hurts. You’re trying to catch your breath when the banging on the doors starts.

“Hello?!”

You glance at the doors as they’re pried apart from the outside.

“You ok in there?”

“Just dandy,” Benedict calls back. “Wouldn’t mind finding solid ground again though.” You give him a look that’s both scolding and affectionate. He glances down with a wry smile. “Also, probably need an ambulance.”

There’s a loud thunk as the doors snap open, the car stuck a few feet below the floor level. Benedict stands quickly, helps you to your feet, and leads you to the doors. “Up you go,” he whispers lifting you halfway up to the waiting hands of the fire brigade.

You’re sat on a bench as you loudly protest the need for an ambulance. “It’s a small cut!” you insist. The paramedic is shaking his head, walking you toward the lobby doors in your stocking feet. You glance back as Benedict emerges from the elevator with a boyish grin on his face, his curls mussed, his shirt wrinkled. A few cameras flash, probably someone’s phone. He winks at you as you’re ushered out the door.

It’s five hours, seven stitches, and a roll of gauze later that you’re returned to the hotel feeling exhausted and filthy. It takes a bit more courage than you’d care to admit to get on the elevators again, but your room is on the 18th floor, and it’s far too many stairs. You reach your room and fish the key out of your skirt pocket, sighing when you can finally drop face first onto your bed. You roll onto your back and contemplate getting up to lock the door when you notice something hanging on the closet door. You frown, pushing yourself up and approaching it carefully.

Wrapped in a clear plastic sheaf and newly cleaned and mended is your trench coat, a bag dangling off the hanger with your shoes in it, your umbrella propped up next to the doors. You frown, tugging the small slip of paper from the front. _Answer the phone._ Answer what phone?

You jump when the phone vibrates in the pocket of Benedict’s jacket, his jacket that you’re still wearing. You tug the phone free and stare at it, the incoming number reading as the hotel’s. This phone?! It stops vibrating and a text pops up on the screen. _Answer the phone, please?_ You blink. What? And the phone buzzes again.

You answer it carefully. “Hello?”

“Hi,” his voice purrs from the other end of the line. “I believe you still have my phone.”

You clear your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to run off with it.”

“Stitches?”

“Seven,” you wince. “I still have your jacket too.”

“I suspect the tie is a lost cause?”

You laugh, genuinely amused. “Yes. Terribly, horribly lost.”

“Hm,” he hums. “I suppose I could demand you make it up to me.”

“I suppose,” you echo back. “I do need to return your belongings.”

You can hear his smile through the phone. “Dinner?”

“I’m starving.”


End file.
